Red Lipstick
by UnderstandablyMillie
Summary: A series of snapshots throughout the lives of Billy Flynn and Mary Sunshine.
1. The Butterfly Effect

AN: Whomever may be reading, thank you for reading this story, I greatly appreciate it! I was inspired to write it after joining a production of Chicago, which kind of made me get back into the fandom (Is it a fandom? Well, whatever you call it.) Anyway, I wanted to write something about my two favorite characters, so here it is! I would greatly appreciate any reviews and constructive criticism, and thanks again for reading!

* * *

 _April, 1900_

The first time he saw her, he didn't think much about it.

She was a young, green reporter assigned to a press conference for a client of his, and as she tried in vain to push through the swarming reporters, he had no reason to notice. He didn't; in fact, at least until she slipped through a crack in the throng, and ended up front and center.

Now, as she fought to ask a question, seeming like a puppy in a greyhound race, he couldn't help but find it pathetically amusing. And with just a glance, he already knew her type: Naïve. Young enough for her juvenile idealism and excitement not to have wilted away after exposure to the real world, and most likely a bit of a pushover.

So _of course_ he let her ask a question. Good publicity didn't generate itself, for Christ's sake.

Her question was about whether the client regretted the decisions that lead up to the crime, all delivered in an exaggeratedly melodic tone. And she didn't seem to experience even a flicker of doubt over his answer.

 _Definitely a pushover._

But it wasn't a new thing for him. Bleeding hearts like her were what kept him _in_ his job. And by this point, he'd had to get pretty good at figuring out which ones were the easiest to crack. He liked to think of the whole thing as an art, the only difference being that it actually made a profit, unlike, say sketching or vaudeville.

And that was why she was completely erased from his mind the second he left the press conference. He had too much on his hands to waste precious time thinking about anything other than his case, and more importantly, how he would manage to make more of a name for himself. And he wouldn't, anyways. Thinking about one gullible reporter was like thinking about one specific daisy in a field: Too ordinary to even remember. Hell, too ordinary to remember _any_ of them.

But the one thing he hadn't realized was that no matter how things may have seemed, this was Chicago. A city where a daisy could turn out to be a carmine-colored rose.

* * *

Contrarily, the first time she saw him was an entirely different occurrence.

Before becoming a reporter, she had wanted to be an actress on the stage, in a musical comedy, such as _In Town_ , or _The Shop Girl_. But this career aspiration didn't sit well with her family, who tried to push her away from what they called 'throwing her life away'. In response, she put away her stage makeup, and went half-heartedly into journalism, and had recently started working for the _Evening Star_.

The only problem, was that she still had doubts about whether this was really the future she was _meant_ to have.

She was going to attend her first press conference that day, but as opposed to feeling elated or terrified, she felt slightly numb. She knew how she _should have_ felt, but she didn't really feel different from any other day. It was unnerving, she briefly wondered if this was how it would be. Forever.

But all of that changed when she heard the press conference: The story of an actress who had killed a man she had considered becoming friendly with, after learning that he was _not_ as friendly as he had seemed.

She felt her heart go out to the young performer, as she was victim to a situation that could have so easily befallen any of a multitude of young women. _Including her_.

The way the lawyer presented the story convinced her to push her way to the front of the horde of reporters, and try to attract his attention with enough conviction to have her question answered. Because this was no longer about having a reasonably suitable career. It was about making a difference in the life of this brave, young woman.

And if that had opportunity had presented itself to _her_ , then by God, she was going to make a difference with it.


	2. Appearances

A/N: Thank you again for reading! Sorry if I made this one a bit Mary-centric, but I promise that there will definitely be more Billy in future chapters.

* * *

 _December, 1900_

She had become a regular to Billy's press conferences by this point. And by some miracle, she hadn't changed a bit since her first article. While the odd journalist still remained skeptical of a defense attorney in his late twenties, she'd nodded at any lie that came out of his mouth, swallowed any sob story, hook, line, and sinker.

And luckily for Billy, she'd gotten stronger. He'd noticed at this point, even so early on, that she had a unique talent to sway the opinions of other reporters. Her enthusiasm was contagious; every exclamation of sympathy seemed to soften some of the more disillusioned reporters' expressions, every softball question gave him more opportunity to put on a show to sway them.

Briefly, he wondered if it was too good to be true.

And yet on one cold evening, after a press conference, he was skeptical as she pulled him aside.

"Mr. Flynn, may I request an exclusive interview?"

He saw an inherent benefit to this, and yet he wasn't going to jump at the chance to take it. He knew that this time around, he was going to have a tougher case than usual to argue, given that his client was unruly and known to be an alcoholic. But even then, he was going to prolong his answer for a few more days. That way, he'd appear to have the upper hand. And as he'd learned from a young age, appearances mattered more than the truth in the _real_ world.

* * *

It was about 3 days since she'd asked him for an interview when she received an agreement. Which meant 3 days she'd spent around the office, awaiting an answer, agonizing over whether in hindsight, what she'd done was unprofessional.

She was _incredibly_ relieved when she'd received the message from his secretary, for a meeting on Tuesday. It still gave her plenty of time to plan well-thought-out questions, which wasn't going to be much of a chore. She _wanted_ to know more about this case. _Something_ about it sat a little odd with her, and she was hungry for more details, in the hopes that it would sort out that sense of perplexment.

She spent every free moment thinking about that _something different_ , adding more and more questions to her list. That is, until Monday night, when she looked down at her list of 27 questions, and it occurred to her that... _maybe_ she should whittle them down a bit.

And that was how she managed to shorten her list down to 10 questions, before slumping down at her writing desk and falling into a deep sleep. Unfortunately, that had unexpected consequences the next morning, when she awoke with only 20 minutes before she had to be at work, not to _mention_ the ink spattered across her cheek.

It was truly a miracle that she'd made it in the time she did, even _if_ some of her co-workers gave her strange looks for being slightly late. And after a quick apology to her superiors and an assurance that it wouldn't be a regular occurrence, she got to work finishing another article before her meeting that afternoon.

At least _that_ way, she would be too busy to fret over a meeting with one of Cook County's most promising lawyers.

Even so, she was the tiniest bit worried when she arrived at his office. It wasn't as opulent as she expected, which made her feel a bit less out of her element, but even then, she couldn't stop smoothing her skirt or tucking strands of hair behind her ear. It was almost a _relief_ when he appeared from his office and invited her in.

"Miss Sunshine?" he asked, raising an eyebrow quizzically.

"Oh! How silly of me! I can start asking questions now if you'd like."

"No." he almost snickered. "I was just going to say, there's ink on the back of your blouse."

 _Oh God. This couldn't be happening._

"Do you mind if I grab my coat?" she asked, her voice a few keys higher than normal.

"Go ahead." he answered, the absolute picture of cool and collected. "Just don't take too long, I'm _very_ busy."

As she grabbed her jacket from just outside the office, she noticed her reflection in a small mirror on the opposite wall. Dried ink stained her sun-streaked hair, and had appeared to have trickled down the back of her blouse like 3 jet-black claw marks.

In a sort of knee-jerk reaction, she covered her shoulders with her coat and walked briskly into the office, attempting an air of unflappability.

"I'm terribly sorry about that." she sputtered. "But anyhow, shall we start?"


End file.
